


This son of York

by Eledhwen



Series: Hal's Histories [1]
Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Historical, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eledhwen/pseuds/Eledhwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The result of a crazy plotbunny sparked by the recent discovery of Richard III's remains under a Leicester carpark, and the realisation young Hal would have grown up in a city still mourning its king. Possibly the first in a series of one-shot flashback fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This son of York

“This stuff about Richard III is really cool,” said Alex, lounging on the sofa. “D'you think it really is him?”

Hal looked around from dusting glasses at the bar. “It certainly seems likely.”

Alex twisted all the way around. “Hey, did you ever see him?”

“I'm not quite that old,” Hal objected. “The Battle of Bosworth Field was five years before I was even born.” He put a glass back on the shelf. “But I used to know a man who fought there. Some of the infantry and archers were from York. Some of them came home.”

Alex got up and came to sit on a bar stool, leaning on the bar. “Go on.”

Hal folded his duster. “I haven't told you or Tom – or Annie – this. The reason I met this man was because I grew up in a brothel. I never knew who my mother was.”

“God, that's ...” Alex grimaced. “Shit, Hal, I had no idea.”

He shook his head. “It was a long time ago. Trust me, I got over it. In any case, I certainly knew my mother, but not which of the women was my mother. They all cared, in their own ways. But this is not about them, it's about the old soldier.”

***

The one-eyed man had been coming to the house for as long as Hal could remember. He did not seem to mind which of the women he went to, but he would pay well, and afterwards sit in the shabby little parlour and drink.

Hal, bringing the man a pot of ale as usual at the end of his visit, had often wondered about how he lost his eye, and why he always looked so miserable. He tried asking the women, but none of them seemed able or willing to answer, and eventually he decided that asking the man himself was the only solution to his problem. 

The man had seen Lizzy, that day, and was in as good a mood as he ever seemed to be in when Hal came in with the ale. 

“Thanks, lad,” he said, as Hal carefully handed the pot over. 

Hal stepped back, and screwing up his courage, said, “How d'you lose your eye, sir?”

The man looked at Hal through his remaining eye. “Arrow,” he said, shortly, and then put his ale down on the little table by his elbow. “Eh, it's only right you ask,” he added. “Bit of curiosity's no bad thing, in a lad. What's your name?”

“Hal,” said Hal. 

“Ha,” the one-eyed man returned. “Bet your ma named you after the Welshman, right?”

“I suppose so.” Hal had never asked about that either. There were enough lads in the city named after the king; it seemed logical that he was one of them.

The one-eyed man spat on the rushes on the floor. “I lost me eye fighting that man,” he said. “I was scarce more than a lad meself, then. I were 'prenticed to a butcher in the Shambles, I were handy with a knife, fancied meself a bit of a fighter. So when Crookback Dick's lords came asking for an army I signed up.”

“Was he crookback?” Hal asked. “I've heard some say as he wasn't.”

The man nodded. “I'm a loyal son of York, I am, but I saw King Dick the morning of Bosworth Field and I'd be lying if I said his back were as straight as your'n. Didn't stop him fighting, though.”

Hal, tired of standing, sat down on a cushion. “What was the battle like?”

“I dunno.” The one-eyed man met Hal's dubious gaze with a shrug. “Honest. I couldn't tell you how long it lasted, how many o' Lancaster I faced. It were bloody and noisy and confusing. I was on foot, with a pike, like most of the fellows who'd come from York. Norfolk had a load of spearmen. T'other side had a bunch of great big Welshmen. I reckon we had the greater force, but Henry had the more loyal men.” He drank from his ale. 

“Anyway, the Crookback gave us all a rousing speech, from his horse, telling us we were fighting for God and our King and for England. But when we joined the battle bloody Northumberland held back. And it were mayhem. Arrows flying every which way, pikes in your face. I couldn't tell who I were fighting or where the king was. I battered away at them that faced me until an arrow hit me and that were that.”

“What happened to the king?” Hal asked. 

“I heard tell afterward that he lost his horse, then got himself bashed in the head and that was that,” said the soldier. “Henry took the crown. Those of us who were of no value got sent home. They took Crookback Dick to Leicester and buried him, or so the messengers said.”

“Maybe if he'd won there'd be lots of lads in the city called Richard,” Hal mused. 

“And why not?” asked the soldier. “He were a good king. They say he might've killed them princes, but he were a good king and he were a York.”

“Even though you did lose your eye for him?”

“Even though I lost me eye,” agreed the soldier. “Never go to war, young Hal. I was lucky that was all I lost.” He drained his pot of ale. “Well. Now you know.”

Hal got up from his cushion and took the empty tankard. “Thank you, sir.”

The soldier nodded. “Welcome.” 

***

“He kept coming back,” Hal said. “Every week for the next year or so. I suppose he must have died, to stop coming.” He picked up his duster and turned back to the glasses. “It's always made me laugh, all these years, to hear them debate whether or not Richard was a hunchback. It was well-known at the time. But he was popular, in York at least, long after his death. Much more so than either of the Henrys.”

Alex shook her head. “Wow. It's like – did you ever think about teaching history?”

Hal frowned at her. “For much of my life, that would simply have ended in too many bereaved parents, Alex. No. I have never thought about teaching history.”

“Will you tell me more stories?” she asked. “Like, did you ever meet any kings or queens?”

He picked up an old bottle of whisky, dusted and replaced it. 

“I did. And yes, I will tell you. When I am not dusting.”

Alex stuck her tongue out at him. “All right, Mrs Mop, I'll leave you to it. But that's a promise, yeah?”

“A promise.”

She turns back to the television.

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to Wikipedia's page on the Battle of Bosworth and the History of York site in particular for historical notes. At Bosworth Field, according to sources, Richard divided his army into three; the Dukes of Norfolk and Northumberland each commanded a 'battle' but Northumberland failed to follow the charge when Richard asked. Ultimately, Richard fell. Although he fought in the battle the recently-discovered skeleton does seem to prove the Tudor stories of his "hunchback", giving him scoliosis or a curved spine.
> 
> For those interested, my fanon has Hal's brothel situated on what's now called Grape Lane in York city centre. It used to be called something much worse because that was where all the prostitutes hung out. Meanwhile our unnamed soldier was training to be a butcher on the Shambles, where you can still see signs of what the street used to be.


End file.
